


overtures bold

by am doing a breakthrough science (acceptnosubstitutes)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: -pats fic- this baby has it all, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oh No! Only One Bed, Oral Sex, Size Difference, Threesome, echo assisted sense memory activated sb, except a coffee shop au, memory bleed, red string of fate sort of, soul bonds, wol sees two very specific souls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29104443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acceptnosubstitutes/pseuds/am%20doing%20a%20breakthrough%20science
Summary: "Alas," says Hythlodaeus, "we fast run both out of time and Emet-Selch's patience. My mouth and tongue shall suffice, I think?""Did you just offer to go down on me?"It's not the first sexual offer S'idos has ever recieved, but it may well be the most blatantly blunt proposition. That he's considering.Hythlodaeus hums his assent. "For the good of your star? Yes, I believe so. Is the term you mortals use riding?Cute."
Relationships: Azem/Emet-Selch/Hythlodaeus (Final Fantasy XIV), Emet-Selch/Hythlodaeus/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Kudos: 23
Collections: Bookclub Top Trope Challenge (January 2021)





	overtures bold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainSin99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSin99/gifts).



> I rewrote this over the last few days, not liking what I started with originally. This came out better. Much better.
> 
> ;)

Of all the ancients S'idos meets in recreated Amaurot, one stands out in particular. Almost suspiciously so, the way the tall, tall being gently fu's at him. Calls him "new old friend" like he knows him. 

Hythlodaeus. Chief of the Architect's Bureau. Some relationship to Emet-Selch, surely. Friend? More than friends?

Nothing to differentiate this ancient from the others milling about. Same black robes, white mask. Blank features. The echo helps S'idos translate the language the ancients use, but it's no use when it comes to voices. All ancients in this city sound the same.

Except. Except for Hythlodaeus. His voice is unique, lilting and lyrical, laughter like the sweetest twinkling music notes. Utterly, achingly familiar. 

So, suspicious.

S'idos drifts from the scions' side, drawn toward the tall, marble white edifice Hythlodaeus so helpfully referred to as the capitol building. Sort of an ascian base of operations then. 

Maybe the capitol building was more imposing when it was whole. Now? White stone, gold metal, crystal detailing once magnificent succumbs to encroaching moss. The weathering of salt and inexhaustible erosion of water. Even likely once beautiful purple blooming trees wilt and fracture in the courtyard.

But this is where Emet-Selch draws the Warrior of Darkness, engorged on the heavy, noxiously rich bitter light aether tang. Overloaded. Every step a measure in patience, world swimming in spurts.

But he must continue. He has to. Everyone is counting on him, and no matter who S'idos was back then before the world fractured, sundered into fourteen shards. No matter what Emet-Selch meant to that being, the ascian's actions now paint him a monster and he refuses to atone for them.

At least S'idos isn't alone. 

He ought to wait for the scions to rejoin him, swore to them he wouldn't push on too far ahead without them. And yet. Well. Perhaps G'raha and Urianger aren't the only learned liars of their party.

Suspicious as he is, Hythlodaeus materializes at S'idos' side, offering the miqo'te a large hand. S'idos doesn't expect his palm to feel as substantial as it does. Mildly warm to the touch. He curls his fingers into the ancient's skin and barely fully encompasses the meaty bit under Hythlodaeus' thumb. 

What would be the meaty bit, S'idos corrects himself. It's hard not to think of the ancient as a living, breathing person when he's holding his hand. When he's bent over slightly to accommodate S'idos' smaller stature, climbing the steps toward doors same as he is.

The doors open inward before them, empty lobby stretching out ahead. Far to the back, large white double doors. Ornate. S'idos steps into the building, doors barely clicking shut behind him before he seizes up, clenching Hythlodaeus' palm hard.

Double vision, ringing in his ears. A rising, rushing nausea his knees weaken under, struggling to support his weight. Hythlodaeus scoops him up into his palm before they fail, enclosing fingers loosely around S'idos. Dazed, still recovering from vertigo, he has the momentary, hysterical thought maybe this is how he goes out. Eikon slayer, liberator of nations, ascian greatest threat - crushed by a giant hand.

And then Hythlodaeus' fingers glow a faint, dark purple-black, sucking out any warmth left from the air down here sheltered in Bismarck's air bubble. When it touches S'idos' body it burns cold, at first, seeping through cloth and armor as though he were laid bare. Prickling, uncomfortable tingling exacerbates the nausea momentarily before it slowly soothes. Abates.

S'idos shudders upon Hythlodaeus' uncurled palm, sitting up, but his mind feels more his own again. Unclouded.

"What did you…?"

Hythlodaeus hums, peering down at the warrior.

"Your aether thrums all in knots, agonized. Rapidly approaching stasis oversaturation levels in dangerous excess. This must be rectified. All haste."

S'idos blinks, understanding the words but not grasping the meaning.

"Tell me, my new old friend, do you still prefer the company of the male persuasion?"

The fuck does that have to do with anything?

Hythlodaeus deposits the warrior on his feet, bringing a fist up to his mouth as if in deep contemplation.

"Have your proclivities changed along with your form? No matter. They do not refer to me as the architect in undeserved recognition, after all."

S'idos has the sense were it not for his mask, the bastard would be winking at him. He scowls.

"What are you on about?"

"Altering my shape, of course. I admit some fondness for this old thing," gesturing down the length of his body, "yet for you, I willingly alter the framework, so to speak."

Yeah, still nothing. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to follow the ancient into the ascian den after all. 

"Look, buddy," S'idos says, crossing his arms, "stop speaking nonsense. And quit it with the personal inquiry already. You'd think we were going to fuck."

Hythlodaeus' mouth curves up widely.

"Fuck." He rolls the word delicately on his tongue, delighting in its vulgarity. "What quaint terminology. Yes, my dear. In all regards the only real concern is the _manner_ of fucking."

Oh, all right. Now S'idos sees the relationship connection between Emet-Selch and Hythlodaeus. Asshole and bigger asshole. At least the former never hit on him. Though there _were_ those few moments…

Hythlodaeus laughs into his fist again, ever amused.

"Perhaps a more technical explanation is in order? Your aura resonates an over influx of stasis, light aether as you might reference it. By design flaw of my creator, I exude comparable growth, or darkness."

He summons a small white glow across the palm of one hand, and purple-black the other.

"Should the twine meet," brings his palms together and then slowly separates them, "they cancel each other out. Of course, I may only hope to alleviate your suffering in some small way. For a short while. True absolution, or annihilation, I suppose, lies ahead."

With Emet-Selch. 

"Huh," S'idos says, sort of faint, "so, fucking?"

Hythlodaeus shrugs one shoulder. "I might try beating it out of you. But my combat capabilities risk attracting attention. His attention, specifically."

Right. S'idos shakes his head, slowly circling the ancient and examining him from head to toe. He's at least, what, sixteen fulms tall? Everything large from S'idos' position but he supposes to other ancients, Hythlodaeus was probably proportional. In all ways.

"Can't say I've never been a little _adventurous_ but you," S'idos huffs a laugh, coming to stand back in front of him, "sorry mate. I'm just going to say it. You must be downright massive."

"Oh?" Hythlodaeus seems thoughtful. "But I forget you mortals are so small. Given the proper preparations, the right spellwork. It could be made to work."

S'idos doesn't really mean to look down between his legs. Not like he can make anything out amongst the layers of fabric anyway. But Hythlodaeus' words seem to suggest there's something there to be made of, and Oschon's hairy _balls_ if the idea doesn't make the warrior's cock twitch despite himself.

"Alas," says Hythlodaeus, "we fast run both out of time and Emet-Selch's patience. My mouth and tongue shall suffice, I think?"

"Did you just offer to go down on me?"

It's not the first sexual offer S'idos has ever recieved, but it may well be the most blatantly blunt proposition. That he's considering.

Hythlodaeus hums his assent. "For the good of your star? Yes, I believe so. Is the term you mortals use riding? _Cute_."

Because of the massive height difference, S'idos supposes, entertaining the thought of the tall being cramming himself into a small enough ball to fit between his legs. The much more, uh, rousing image of straddling smooth, ivory cheeks. Guiding his firm, hard need against grinning lips no one has touched in hundreds of years. They parted open for him, wet hot tongue offering searing greeting.

S'idos swallows. Hard.

"Right here, out in the open? Were all ancients this kinky?"

Another wink sense, tilted head telling S'idos some of them certainly got up to interesting diversions. This one included.

Well then.

* * *

"No need for such shyness, dear. Simply insert it in and we shall begin."

S'idos grips for purchase on the smooth planes of Hythlodaeus' mask, body riding waves on every word. Wishes desperately the ancient would stop talking so clinically about oral stimulation. He gives up on the mask, grasping into his hood instead. His feet barely graze the ground even with Hythlodaeus pliant underneath him, prone, necessitating the ancient's hand cradling his back for stability. The leverage S'idos needs to shift his hips forward, gingerly guiding himself past opening lips.

Curious, brushing against the ancient's mouth. Like it should feel, soft, plump, slightly wet. Juxtaposed with complete lack of visual representation. And _again_ , S'idos feels that ache deep in his chest. A pull like echo vision without the disorienting world shifting. 

For one single (perfect) moment, sense memory drags its way to the surface - those lips meandering kisses down his (his?) neck, suckling minor bruises into the collarbone, lips curving upward over his partner's (who?) whining, mewling pleads for more, anything and everything.

Hythlodaeus' tongue wraps around S'idos, taking him inside his mouth and quite firmly pulling the warrior out of his trance.

 _Do enjoy the amenities as you please._ Hythlodaeus' voice, directly inside his head, cheerfully bright. _I have long since ceased intaking air as a necessity._

"Oh sure," S'idos snarks back, "because you're dead, and all."

The way Hythlodaeus is so flippant about his own demise unsettles. But not enough S'idos stops bucking into the wet warmth curling around, pulling him down. Wonders who it speaks worse of, but _twelve_ , Hythlodaeus' claims about his skill with his tongue were not made in jest.

It bends, ridiculously flexible and agile for the sheer size of it in comparison to the length it laps. Licks strips up broadside edge, curling around. Encompassing fully. Muscle strength pulls S'idos even further inside, slowly squeezing lazy serpentine trails. Pursed lips, hollowed out cheeks creates deliciously teasing suction. 

Such gentled pressure carries S'idos rocking into Hythlodaeus' mouth, voice coming out breathy pants.

"Haa, yeah. That's… _yeah_. Oh, oh fuck."

They sprout silent, thick ropes of purple-black inky darkness latching onto ankle and twining their way up muscled leg. Soft, velvet smooth as silk, slithering past without entering S'idos' body. Choosing instead to cup his balls as though fingers. Rolling them, playing with them, exerting pressure combined with increased deep suck around the warrior's length it curls his toes in his boots.

S'idos grabs for more fistfuls of Hythlodaeus' hood, sweaty skin on fire against cool fabric. The hard, smooth planes of his mask press into the warrior's stomach, Hythlodaeus nuzzling into him. Such movement rocks S'idos' whole body, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

How he hasn't come yet, he can't say.

Another memory. But that's how they always were, all three (three?) of them. Partners in ascending deviancy, climbing heights others only dreamed. Teasing out endless nights breathless passion. Always dragging things out, balancing on the edge without pitching over so on that final dive they brought down stars from the sky.

Slow, slow clapping. The sound of footsteps clicking across stone drawing nearby.

"Well, well," Emet-Selch's airy, bored tones, "well. What _do_ we have here?"

S'idos jerks upright, catching sight of the very ascian he originally came all this way to see. Fight. See. Kill. Kiss. 

The fuck? 

Arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the sight of his greatest adversary astride the face of whom S'idos is quickly deducing probably lover. 

"Oh, _fuck_."

Emet-Selch lifts lofty brow.

"Yes, yes. Indeed, I see. Are you well enjoying yourself, hero?" His gaze sharpens, glittering knives full of promised danger. "Besmirching a dear and beloved memory with your mortal taint?"

His voice drives more cutting and snide on every word, daring a reaction. S'idos bristles.

" _Well_." S'idos rolls the 'l's the same way Hythlodaeus rolls his tongue in waves up and down his length, dragging out stuttering breath Emet-Selch remains impassive to. "Your buddy does. Does bloody fantastic things with his tongue, ha. Aaah."

_Now, now, children. Behave._

The world softly fades away. Another memory? But no, different, a sense of being in two places at once unlike the echo dropping S'idos firmly in the past. Rooted to the present, scorching heat, Hythlodaeus never letting up his ministrations. Even while S'idos stares in awe at the void around him unfurling color - verdant, brightest green, blinking golden lights sparking to life at all vectors. 

Warm. Familiar. Comforting as a heavy blanket. 

The sense of S'idos as himself, but taller, one of them, dawned of red mask painted sun. Coming home after long, wearying journeys to Hythlodaeus' arms. His warm embrace. 

And another. All hues of purple, deep violet, brilliantly bold and elegant. Blooms alongside the green, infuses the stars an otherworldly glow. Never clashing, never overtaking, overwhelming. 

S'idos doesn't want to remember. Doesn't want to know what Emet-Selch meant to his ancient counterpart, but sense memory comes unbidden. 

Fondness. Affection. Leaning. Support. 

_Cordiality, dearest._ Says Hythlodaeus, voice still speaking directly into S'idos' mind, though the ancient appears nowhere in sight. _I made this choice._

Emet-Selch materializes out of the void as if he were always there, turned away from S'idos, shoulders slumped and head lowered. 

"Tch. You're a facsimile, Hythlodaeus. A mirage. I should -" 

Can't seem to finish the sentence so Hythlodaeus picks it up for him. 

_Erase my existence? Assimilate this drain of aether? Forget my accursed name?_

Emet-Selch thrusts a palm against his forehead, gloved fingers digging into his hair. He spins around, face screwed up in anguish, gritted teeth. 

"Do not suggest such things," he says. So softly. Tiredly. Strained. "I could _never_." 

Bright light flares near him, the outline of a being as tall as an ancient at first. Shifts and shapes itself proportional to Emet-Selch, such that he might more easily lean into the presence. So bright S'idos only catches glimpses - tall, lanky shape, long hair and brilliant smile - before the light washes it all away again. And Emet-Selch turns into its embrace seemingly despite himself. 

_You should join us. If you close off the Sight, dear, will it not feel as if little has truly changed? Let yourself have this. Before the end._

The ascian's head hangs a little lower, body swaying in the dissipation of the presence. Raises his arm, fingers poised. 

Snaps. And they return to reality. 

They're back in reality and Emet-Selch returns striding forward, hands pulling and tugging first coat from his shoulders. Then the longer, heavier mantle. Both dumped unceremoniously on the ground. He walks around S'idos and Hythlodaeus, the former twisting around at the waist, blinking. 

Emet-Selch climbs up between Hythlodaeus' legs, knees sinking into robes. Just so slowly, so gingerly begins movement against him. 

_Would you like to watch?_ Soft, musical laughter. _Go ahead, little one. My mask shall bear your weight._

S'idos blinks some more. Oh. He wants him to actually _sit_ on his face. Hmm. Shivers to be called little without really knowing why. Pleasant thrum. 

Hythlodaeus plucks him up easily, as if he weighs nothing, changing him over hand to face Emet-Selch as easily as S'idos might throw his travel satchel over his shoulder. This manhandling too stirs something within him. A thrill of excitement given voice in a moan S'idos doesn't manage to bite off. 

Score in his favor Emet-Selch too preoccupied with rucking up Hythlodaeus' robes to get at the body beneath. As blank below as above but Emet-Selch doesn't seem to care. And as expected, massive. Torso sized, a hefty thickness S'idos finds himself envying the ascian on the opposite end of it. But how Emet-Selch plans on taking all of that, well, anywhere, is beyond him. 

Every drag and pull of the ascian's hands paying loving tribute, encouraging rumbling from Hythlodaeus, leaves behind slick wetness in their wake. And as if catching onto S'idos' train of thought, Emet-Selch looks up at him through half lidded eyes. Picks up his skirts, of which he's wearing absolutely nothing underneath, spreading thighs arched upon its girth. He rocks a little back and forth on his perch, half-broken groan finally breaking the barrier of closed lips. 

It is one of the singularly most erotic things S'idos has ever seen. 

They lock eyes, ascian and hero. The dark and the light. And the bridge between them, under them, gently buoying them along. Emet-Selch reaches out first. An inherent hesitancy like in none of his previous actions. An open vulnerability hard to mask when every stretching ilm rubs on sensitive skin. 

And though there is no hope of meeting him, distance much too far (figuratively and literally) S'idos redoubles his grip in Hythlodaeus' hood, leaning out as far, as much as he can strain. 

_How much do you really remember?_ Hythlodaeus asks, all of a sudden, between rolling his tongue down S'idos' length and doubling back, flicking the tip. _The truth? Or what_ He _would have you recall?_

This seems an old hashed out argument in the way Emet-Selch groans, slumping forward, digging his elbows into Hythlodaeus' abdomen. Or perhaps he's simply nearing his peak early. How much stamina can the old man have? 

_Oh? Surely, then, you remember_ this. 

S'idos watches a long, shivering shudder jerk its way through the ascian's body, stalling all other movement completely. Emet-Selch turns his cheek into Hythlodaeus' robes, angled in beautiful view towards the warrior. Mouth falling open, slack. Eyes rolling back into his head. 

_Mmm._ Yes. _When you both pressed inside me. So full. Completely and utterly touching in all ways, that blessed day. We took such a long, long time to achieve ascendance - bodies meeting, minds sharing, souls bared open. Do you remember?_

Emet-Selch doesn't rise from where he lies, shaking, having begun grinding down once more. One of Hythlodaeus' large hands gentles upon his back, two long fingers stroking down his spine. 

_Or was that taken from you? Deemed unimportant? Frivolous?_ The ancient's voice takes on a pleading, urgent tone. _Why do I remember, beloved? All of them, little precious moments. Dear treasures. Lying under you both, giving, being taken. Endless loop of feedback._

_You made me this way. You're so close…_

So close to what? Is what S'idos wants to ask, tired of being left in the dark. Soon lost to gasping groans of his own. He feels the phantom sense of fullness spreading between his cleft, despite nothing there at all, something warm moving firm and strong within him. Then another joining, stretching him to pleasant buzz, edging burn pulling whines from the warrior's lips. 

Emet-Selch leans up on one arm, panting. "You -" 

But he loses his train of thought, submerged in fog of pleasure once more, closing his eyes as his head starts to drift. 

_Interesting._ Hythlodaeus sounds terribly amused, though of course he does. Like a default or something. _Sincerest apologies, new old friend, I had not factored in your fractured bondlink may still hold so strong._

"Hnn. What, what, bond?" S'idos struggles to maintain focus, body draping forward over the ancient's chin. Swept this way and that by vibrating reverberations, unaware which brings him over the edge - the rumbling laugh, the pressures shifting amongst each other inside, the tongue not yet slowed swallowing him down. 

All three perhaps, thrust behind, under, around the backdrop of true echo for the first time the entire encounter. Rapid fire flashes. 

There they three - Emet-Selch, hair entirely white and face a hundred years unlined. Sitting cross legged near him the tall, lanky figure S'idos knows is Hythlodaeus without needing to be told. And so the redheaded, grinning ancient leaning into his side... 

Scene shifts just a little disorientingly to the left. 

Interwoven red rope joining their wrists, held equidistant in perfect circle. Stars twinkling on high overhead. Emet-Selch leads, speaking in some low, hushed language S'idos both fails to understand and holds him in rapture. 

Slowly, over time as the night fades and blends into dawn, the color of the rope changes. Familiar shades. 

Green gold. Violet. And a multitude of blues - cerulean, azure, aquamarine and more. 

Terribly, frighteningly beautiful. Melding, joining as a unit, living entity, emotion heightened to highest bliss beyond physical pleasure. 

Comfort. Warmth. Solace. Shelter. A hundred thousand infinite concepts battering S'idos with sheer force of feeling. 

But one that sticks out beyond all others: his, his, _his_. 

S'idos comes back to himself with a jolt, shooting straight up off the ground and making it a few, staggering, bewildered feet forward before he realizes a few things. 

He's been cleaned up, fully dressed. A few more steps and he stops, surprised no disorienting pain plagues his movements. No headaches, mounting migraines. Aether still roils heavy in his innards, churns his guts something fierce, but S'idos manages to settle momentary nausea. 

Emet-Selch is gone. And his clothing off the floor. As if he'd never even been there. But S'idos knows differently. This was not some aether sickness induced fever dream. The tall, lonely form standing alone before damningly open double doors further in only testament ever truly needed. 

Fire licks at its edges, scenes of absolute chaos beyond. S'idos struggles to comprehend what he's seeing through those open doors. Horribly twisted, mutated creatures run amok through Amaurot? Ancients falling prone in the streets. Rent by claw, tooth and talon. Blood. Smoke. So much death. 

"The end of days," says Hythlodaeus. Devoid of inflection. Emotion or feeling. "Hmm. I had thought perhaps if he could be led to _remember_. But no, no it appears much too late for mere memories." 

He turns his head to S'idos just as the doors of the capitol building burst open, admitting a flurry of scions - Aliaise foremost amongst them, rapier out and prepared to fight. 

"You owe me nothing, of course, but if I might ask a favor?" Hythlodaeus steps backwards as he speaks, towards a shadowy, unnoticed corner of the room. 

"Anything." 

And S'idos comes to find he even means it, if it causes even a ghost of that familiar smile to return. 

"Pray see our beloved to his rest. I know he hardly deserves peace. After it all. So please end this. Put an old shade at his ease, hmm?" 

And there's no one, no one at all, the Warrior of Darkness can confide in that particular ache, watching Hythlodaeus melt away into the shadows. Facing forward, the created memory of remembered destruction, knowing somewhere in there he faces cleaving out another part of his soul. And nothing for it but to push on. 


End file.
